The Return Of The King
by rorwyk
Summary: An ancient prophecy ensured the survival of a wizard thought to be long dead. What does it have to do with Harry Potter and his survival? OotP AU. EVENTUAL SLASH.


**Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, ect. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended.**

**A/N:**_ This story will eventually be slash, with only briefly implied pairings until that point. The concept is that our original character, a wizard, discovers that his parents have kept a very important secret from him. This story will intersect with canon soon enough._

Lazareth wandered the corridors, bored out of his mind and idly wondering how long it would take his tutor to realize that he had not, in fact, managed to apparate out of Silas Castle. It was impossible to apparate onto or out of his family's property, but Lazareth Silas had created a Portkey out of his shoe and thrown a rather convincing muggle firecracker before he was whisked away. It had taken him the week to figure out how to create an illegal, undetectable Portkey that would work within his family's wards. He also finally discovered where Silas Castle was located, since the Portkey wouldn't work without coordinates. He'd never bothered with scrying before (Divination disgusted him and it was the only subject his parents allowed him to neglect), but even his mother wouldn't reveal the exact location to him when he'd asked.

Their paranoia, as well as their refusal to address it, was starting to annoy him. He had spent too much time hiding from his tutors in the library to not have come across enough information to piece the clues together. The wards that kept Silas Castle hidden and near-impossible to enter and leave (his tutors lived within the castle for all but one month of the year and it took two weeks of preparation every time to grant them re-entrance); his parents' secrecy; the constant supervision; only being allowed out to visit the nearest muggle town twice a year under his father's careful watch; their relation to one of Hogwarts Founders which his parents should have boasted, but instead had never told him; his parents firm rejection when he'd received his Hogwarts letter four years ago; a prophecy he'd only read about in a long-forgotten children's book. All of it meant something.

He'd been gathering and hoarding information for several years, redeveloping his suspicions and shaping his imaginary queries into something that implied to his parents that he already knew what they hid from him. Only now he didn't need to voice his questions and wheedle his answers from them. Lazareth knew more than they apparently wanted him to. He just didn't know yet what to do with the knowledge. However, it still irritated him that they wouldn't trust him with information, never mind that he already had it.

"Master Silas!" A round gentleman with a walrus mustache shook his monocle at him as he huffed to his side.

Lazarus smiled vacantly in the man's general direction, inwardly annoyed that he was found so quickly. He wished Frischworth would stop calling him "Master Silas."

"Mister Frischworth," drawing out the syllables in the way that he knew grated on the professor.

"I must insist that you call me Professor, dear boy." Frischworth, declared pompously. Continuing on without a response, as he'd already said the same thing to no affect five times that day, he scolded Lazareth for abandoning his lesson. Becoming an animagus was of extreme importance; why, every one of his ancestors had been one!

Lazareth tuned him out as they began walking again, Frischworth seeming oblivious of their direction. He pondered over another piece of information, one that Frischworth probably didn't even realize he'd given him. Were his parents waiting to see what his form would be? He decided that the odds were fifty-fifty that he would meet their expectations, whatever animal that was.

Honestly, he was afraid he would be disappointed in his form. He knew that his mother was a hen and his father's form was a porcupine; neither were particularly inspiring. Frischworth seemed confidant that his form would be something that matched to his personality and potential. Lazareth didn't know what that meant, but since he'd found out his tutor's form was a turkey when he'd truly expected a walrus he wasn't reassured. Now, with the nagging feeling that becoming an animagus might end his suspension in metaphorical limbo, he reluctantly absolved to try.

"Why have you steered us towards the kitchens? You should have begun partial transformation weeks ago and slacking off now-!"

"I'm sure we can stop for a bite to eat. Magic depletes energy; food sustains energy," Lazareth quoted one of his old tutors, who had been determined to teach her pupil the importance of nutrition and physical exercise if she had to rap his knuckles with her wand every five minutes- which she took pleasure in doing. He'd hated her, naturally.

Lazareth had to admit that without the knowledge she'd beaten into him, he'd probably have never started working out. Now he was 5' 7" and had lean muscles. He'd reached his limit on expanding his magic physically and would have to wait until his majority for any more increases. Wizards who were in less-than-perfect shape inhibited their body's natural capacity for magic, and, after a certain age, would be unable to regain the missing portion that they should have had. Lazareth was pleased with the extra power his excellent health afforded him, but was more impressed with his looks. Of course, there was no one to around for him to impress, which dampened his vanity.

After a healthy snack and three hours of mind-numbing meditation, he begged off claiming that he had to finish his Arithmancy essay before Frau Hildebrand found out that he hadn't. It was a lie. Frau Hildebrand always knew if he didn't finish his assignments before the weekend and was subsequently harder on him even if they weren't due til the following Tuesday. He'd already finished all of his assignments.

He quickly locked himself in his room before anyone could intercept him. Technically, every minute of his days were scheduled and someone was always to be supervising him until after dinner time. His parents even paid his flying instructor to double as a guard during the night, ensuring that he stayed in his rooms. They didn't think he knew about it, but he'd found ways to sneak out without using the door. Who would think that when he was eight years old he directed 'accidental' magic to duplicate his bed sheets and made a rope to climb out of his four-story window like a muggle? Or that, at nine, Lazareth discovered that Sticking Charms could be used for scaling? At ten, he shrunk himself and wiggled through a crack in the wall. When he finally  
>got his wand, he started charming his poor instructor through the door.<p>

Silas Castle wasn't anything special at night, other than quiet and dark. He didn't even really do it for the freedom (he was perfectly capable of sneaking off during the day), rather he did it because he could. That was usually his motivation for breaking any sort of rule.

Lazareth sighed again as he gazed about his rooms. His mother had suddenly decided that the décor he'd had since he was born had to go. Instead of a Quidditch-themed room with mahogany furniture and pale yellow and green as the colour scheme, his room was now a mix between Elizabethan and Roman-inspired furniture and decorations. The colour scheme appeared to be dark purple and gold. It wasn't comfortable.

He was thinking of moving into one of the empty suites on the third floor. Maybe he'd keep it a secret. At least she hadn't messed with his adjoining bathroom and private study. Only the bedroom and sitting room had been ravaged. Lazareth entered the study, admiring his charm-work on the wall that displayed a rotating atlas of the world. He'd gotten the idea from Hogwarts A History. He sat behind his desk and propped his feet on it. He wondered what he would do for the rest of his life; as he always did when he sat at his desk. He supposed his parents had some sort of answer to that question. He wasn't too sure that he would like it.

He knew that he wouldn't spend his life in this castle, although supposedly all the generations before him had. Obviously, they'd ventured out at some point (he knew they hadn't inter-married), but he was unsure whether all of them had come back. His father claimed they did and Lazareth knew that there was a cemetery somewhere on the grounds. It'd been the one place he hadn't tried to explore.

Lazareth had once desperately wished he had other family for company, but both his parents claimed they had none. His mum used to tell him about growing up in Sweden and being the only muggleborn accepted in her year when she attended Beauxbatons. His curiosity about his grandparents had ended the stories (supposedly their deaths still upset his mother so much that she couldn't talk about them). His father only told him that his parents died after Lazareth was born. His stories involved pranking his tutors and a one-year trip around the world when he was eighteen. He had come back with a wife in tow. Lazareth had the suspicion that the trip had not been as spontaneous as it was made out to be and rather fit what he knew of the generations before him. He was determined not to continue the odd tradition, but he also suspected that it wasn't one of the expectations his parents had of him.

He sighed and shifted his mind away from the subject. Obviously, everything in his life (past, present, and future) revolved around the secret his parents thought that they were keeping from him. If he could somehow bring the topic out into the open, maybe he could actually get somewhere.

At dinner, he tried several times to say something, but the words wouldn't come out. He studied his parents from under his lashes as he looked down at his plate. His father was telling his mother about the newest discovery in muggle science, grey eyes seeming to shimmer with his excitement. Lazareth wondered if his eyes were so lively. His mother was nodding as she listened, her cherry lips quirking up on one side in bemusement. Her brown curls were escaping whatever new style she'd tried to force them into. He grinned, knowing that as soon as she noticed, she'd scold him for neglecting to slick his hair back in that disgustingly pureblood fashion. He actually liked his curly hair. She'd probably tell him that he was much too pale and needed to stop slouching over the table. He'd pretend not to hear her.

"Lazareth Ryn Silas!"

He sat up straight and schooled his expression into polite interest. "Yes, Mother?" He could guess why she always used his full name, but it did make it sound as though he was in trouble.

"Have you managed your animagus form yet?"

That simple question became a sort of mantra for the next two months. He'd started having nightmares about his animagus form being something weak or, during one memorable dream, dead. He was pretty sure that no one had died trying to become an animagus, but he knew that it wasn't impossible. If one became a fish, they could easily asphyxiate. He often worried that he'd never succeed. He kept in mind that it'd normally take a grown witch or wizard three to six years to achieve their first transformation. Frischworth had only been his tutor for eight months and he was only fifteen. Still, his parents seemed to be anticipating a miracle. He didn't even know what his form was. Frischworth informed him that he might be one of the rare types that transform into their animagus form suddenly, rather than from practice and meditation. That didn't stop him from trying to teach by those methods though.

After waking from a particularly bad nightmare that involved animals refusing to be his form and two ghostly women watching him in despair, he flung himself out of bed. He made way to his window, vanishing the glass with practiced ease. Glancing down, he decided that he could probably scale it without the Sticking Charms. He was familiar with every groove and grip from doing this routinely for the past few years. He hadn't wanted his guard getting suspicious by spelling him asleep or confounding him too often. He was two-stories off the ground when the piercing shriek of some sort of bird startled him badly. As he hurled towards the ground, he cast a cushioning charm. That was the best he could do, since it wasn't possible to cast levitation charms on yourself. He was fucked.

He woke up some time later. The ground was beneath him, but he wasn't on his back as he expected. He stood up, realizing something was different as he fell straight back down again. Pausing, he realized that he had completed his animagus transformation. He stood up again, on four legs. Pawing the ground nervously, he tossed his head trying to look at himself. He nearly whapped himself in the face with a wing. Controlling his animagus body was a lot different from moving an arm or a leg simply by doing so. He actually had to think about it first. Carefully, he gave his wings a couple of experimental flaps before lowering them. Obviously, he was some breed of winged horse then. He didn't think that he was any of the breeds that they had in the stables. Trying to walk without consciously coordinating his leg movements caused a few more falls before he finally stood at the edge of the lake on the south-west corner of the property. His reflection stared at him challengingly. His skeletal body was covered by a coat of shiny grey, slick and hairless. His mane and tail were also shinning grey, which gave the illusion of being translucent. The wings he'd already noticed were rather odd-shaped and leathery and grey. The most distinguishing feature was his eyes, set in a draconic skull, wide and completely white. His reflected eyes had no expression, but he swore he saw death in them. There was no doubt that he was a thestral, but he thought it was strange that he was grey instead of black.

Lazareth was unsure how to feel about his animagus form. At least he wasn't something small or weak, but being a creature considered by most people to be an omen or Death itself didn't cause warm, fuzzy feelings to erupt in his gut. Although, flying would be a welcomed ability. He huffed, unaware that the cold air solidified his ghostly image as 'smoke' billowed out of his nostrils. There was also the small issue of how to change back.

It was a pain to walk back to the castle, not willing to try flying just yet, but he finally thought he was steady on his legs. Then he met a new challenge: stairs. Getting the door open with his mouth was easy in comparison to those damned tricksters. After more stairs and some slipping on wet stone, he'd finally found some pleasure in his animagus form: scaring the bejeesus out of Frischworth. There might have even been fuzzy feelings. He sort of scared himself after the discovery that thestrals could produce a spooky, shrill noise similar to laughter. Lazareth invited himself to lay on his tutor's bed (the frame groaned but the strengthening charms he was sure Frischworth had cast on it seemed to hold) as the man himself hurried to get dressed. Lazareth ignored the man's excited exclamations and half-jealous murmurs as he concentrated solely on flicking his tail back and forth. Maybe being a thestral wouldn't be so bad.

"A thestral?"

Lazareth nodded in response to his father's question. He still hadn't managed to change back, even with Frischworth's coaxing. His mother was petting him. If he were a cat, he would purr. His father was merely gaping in astonishment. He seemed pleased though. Lazareth expected he would have to wait until he was human to ask whether he'd passed or failed their test.

Two days later, after being forced to yield to the indignity of a bath and happily killing many poor birds and small prey for food, he finally shifted back to his human form. If Frischworth was right, he would now be able to shift back and forth at will with the right amount of practice and concentration.

He found both his parents in the family room. Lazareth leaned against the back of the couch and tried to figure out a way to sum up all his questions. "So..?"

His mother smiled at him sadly. "We've suspected since the day you were born. I'm sure you've figured that much out by now. Your animagus form confirms that you are the Reincarnation of Salazar Slytherin."

"What does that mean for my future?"

"Lazareth," his father started, "you are the Reincarnation of Salazar Slytherin, but that doesn't mean you aren't your own person. You don't have to choose the destiny laid out for you by some ancient prophecy."

"That's what you've done everything for," he argued. "Generations of Silas' protected their bloodline just so I could be born! You can't want me to throw that all away?"

"We believe in the Vision," his mother answered calmly. "You could help defeat Voldemort, his creation was partially your past self's responsibility. You could usher the Wizarding World into a new era. We believe that you could be great and feel blessed for bringing you into the world. But, we would be just as proud if you didn't do those things."

He scrutinized them with an adept eye. He knew his parents had never lied to him. Refused to answer him and sometimes misdirected, but never lied. They weren't the closest family, but they did care about each other. He did realize why his parents had at times held him at arms length. If he made the right choice, he would never see them again.


End file.
